


Nous Devons au Pouvoir

by WildandWhirling



Series: The Abomination Verse [2]
Category: 1789 - バスティーユの恋人たち | 1789: Les Amants de la Bastille - Takarazuka Revue, 1789: Les Amants de la Bastille - Various Composers/Attia & Chouquet
Genre: (Nothing ACTUALLY happens but just in case.), Grooming, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Manipulation, Period-Typical Underage, Save Teen Laz 2k19
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 14:11:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18994210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildandWhirling/pseuds/WildandWhirling
Summary: Lazare, meet Artois





	Nous Devons au Pouvoir

**Author's Note:**

  * For [estike](https://archiveofourown.org/users/estike/gifts).



> Done for Estike's birthday, since she requested something Artois-centric. (Technically speaking, I hit the deadline in my timezone but missed it in the one it was intended for.) Thank you so much for getting me into Sparkly Gay Frev Hell two years ago; it's been a wild ride but I've had the time of my life. She wrote her own fantastic take on the Artois/Peyrol relationship and how it developed over the years; I highly recommend it if you can handle Artois being..........himself. 
> 
> Spoilers for Le Cri de ma Naissance in the sense that, sadly Kid!Ronan and Kid!Lazare do not run away into the country and live happily ever after.

Of all of the numerous court functions that existed purely to cure insomnia, there were few things that he despised more than receiving nobles at court. Line after line of ladies who trembled as they approached, more than an arm-width away, pure and proper and perfectly out of reach while his sister in law would pretend to care long enough to acknowledge them (there, at least, he could understand her) while he suffered like Tantalus trapped in Tartarus. And then there counterparts, line after line of young officers, all of them from noble families, all of them pursuing dreams of personal glory. All of them utterly indistinguishable, all of them. And, worst of all, there was no particular way of telling when some unimportant Marquis would make a point of introducing his brother to his distant cousin, who _is very bright, I assure you, Your Majesty, and very agreeable_.

 

How utterly insipid. There was no genuine awe, no _reverence_ . It was a means to an end. They all wanted something, acknowledgment for their families, positions, to further their careers. They should have been brought to their _knees_ in the presence of royalty, knowing that they were in the presence of the ones who had been given the divine power to rule. Louis XIV had been a master of it, he had turned Versailles into a temple of marble and gold and glass, taking whatever he pleased for no other reason than that it was his right, and having whoever opposed him dealt with. There was no room for apostasy. There was no room for a single whisper that he didn’t hear. He ruled Versailles like Jove himself was said to rule Olympus, and France had been theirs for the taking because of it. But his brother was incapable of using their bloodline, his sister-in-law cared only for a small circle, especially that gossipping hag Polignac, and meanwhile they allowed the streets to stream with heretics and idolators, all of them creating their own religion of “rationality.”

 

There were times he wondered whether they were even blood. It seemed strange, that someone like that should come from their line, that he would have the blood of kings and remember it only when he was reminded, like a child being coaxed to name colors. It made more sense for him to be a bastard. Perhaps their other brother was as well, and Artois was the only true heir to the bloodline both in word and in deed.

 

Not that it mattered. Not yet, anyway. Soon, but not yet.

 

Inevitably, by the end of the whole miserable business, his cheeks would ache from all the smiles that he would have to force on it, not that anyone noticed. They were simple creatures, all of them. The Prince of the Blood smiled at them, and so they were happy. He could smile his way through anything, until his teeth cracked and broke, and they would believe him. They didn’t care that the face that smiled at them had never existed, not really. None of _him_ really existed, at least not the him that walked the Palace during the daytime. It was one more part of his daily toilette, painted on along with his face powder and the dark stain that used on his lips. Everyone did it, he just happened to have been born with the wisdom to know how to use it. And they didn’t care to look, so they didn’t see it, even when he was mocking them beneath it all.

 

Pathetic, really.

 

At first, he scarcely even noticed the latest officer set to be presented. Young, no more than 16 or so, yet to grow into his legs or his arms. Sharp features, not particularly beautiful, however not _common_ either. Dark. Every button of the blue coat that hung off of him, every silver thread that lined it _gleamed_ in the light of the chandeliers, which indicated that he spent a truly tedious amount of time polishing them. (He was hardly likely to be anyone of interest, Artois decided, if he spent so much time on a few buttons.) No wrinkles, not so much as a stray hair, even though his own hair was completely out of fashion, seeming more as if he had simply attempted to tie it back and had failed but decided that it was suitable. Obviously, not one of the upper members of the court aristocracy. The Duc de Rouchefoucauld had highly recommended him, the radical forever propping up his project in America, however...that hardly meant anything. 

 

Off to the side, the Comte de Peyrol stood by, walking stick clutched in his gloved hand, waiting for his brother to approach. He was hardly the sort of person that he would normally associate with, with a mouth inclined towards glowering, all lines and wrinkles wrapped in a coat and wig, _mortal_ even as he watched his grandson like a hawk eyeing a rabbit. The Comte de Peyrol was not often active at court, nor did he have the particular grace that meant that anyone noticed or cared when he was. One of the provincial nobles who cared more for horses and rifles than anything resembling high culture. Decent enough for his purpose, certainly not one of the reformers babbling about reform, but utterly worthless when it came to company. Not the kind of man who mattered in the end; he doubted that anyone would know the man in ten years, when he inevitably caught a sudden illness and wasted away despite his presumptions.

 

More a man of stone than marble.

 

His musings on this, which he’d done while making a study of the window moldings that laid just behind the crowd so that he could at least appear like he was paying attention, were cut short by the Comte de Peyrol’s voice, which was a sort of bark (perhaps the boy would do better in the kennels):

 

“Sire, my grandson, the Chevalier de Peyrol.”

 

The officer walked up dutifully, stiffly, every step even as his heels clacked against the marble floor. And when he bowed, he was reminded of one of the little automatons that inventors sometimes tried to peddle to the court, a little thing of brass or silver that existed purely to dip its head on command.

 

And then he didn’t raise himself, frozen in terror.

 

The Comte gripped his cane, and he looked ready to strike him on the spot. There was the faint sound of laughter from some of the courtiers. Normally, he would have joined them, enjoying the spectacle at seeing them break beneath his laughter, at controlling the mood of the room, but this time, he remained silent. He could see the boy grit his teeth at the insult, fists clenching at his sides, even as he remained still.

 

What would he do next? Artois found himself focused purely on it, as if he was attending a bear baiting match from the time of Henry IV. Would the boy be torn apart, or would he have some bite in him, after all? Regardless, he would have a show.

 

He hoped that he would explode. It would be a break from the usual, certainly. And then Artois would ensure that his family never so much as muck the stables of the riding school at Versailles.

 

Instead, he forced himself up, and his face was clear of the slightest hint of being so much as slightly inconvenienced. “My apologies, Your Majesty. I am unused to being in the presence of royalty.”

 

Louis opened his mouth to make some air-headedly benign comment, but Artois cut him off, laughter spilling easily across his lips like fine wine from a bottle. He wouldn’t face any consequences for it, after all. He never did.

 

“And here we see it, the future of the French army! So brave, he can hardly stand in front of his own countrymen and bow.”

 

The crowd joined him in his laughter easily, being given the sanction to join in the good humor.

 

The boy stood, stock still, still shaking in his over-sized blue coat.

 

“If Your Highness will permit me-“ There it was, ever so slightly, a growl.

 

Artois arched a brow.

 

The boy straightened up, even as he averted his eyes downward in deference, and the growl was gone in his voice. “There are many common soldiers. There is but one king of France.”

 

He was shaking. Perhaps it was nerves, fear of the future, perhaps it was that frustration before itching its way out of his skin. This wasn’t a simple lie, not like the ones that easily fell on courtiers’ lips, or the ones that he would practice in his mind for hours when he was at his leisure. He could create whole conversations out of lies in his head, imagining how it would sound, how it would feel in his mouth as it rolled across his tongue. There was fear, yes, but also something that _burned_.

 

The eyes of the court were on him now, waiting to see his response. He gave a faint smile. “Well said.”

 

His brother returned the bow and opened his mouth again, trying to think of some passing comment to give to the Chevalier de Peyrol, however as always, he ended up performing the role of a dying fish instead as his face flushed.

“Good boy, good boy.”

 

There was a slight twinge of disappointment to the Chevalier’s glance, that straight back bending ever so slightly as his face fell, but his brother scarcely noticed, already off to whatever business he chose to involve himself with.

 

One more forgettable face, hardly likely to matter. He would live and he would die as his grandfather had and his grandfather’s grandfather, memorable to a few but not achieving anything of real greatness. What the nobility called “greatness,” a few pages in a history or a memoir in their name, it all was nothing compared to divinity.

 

However…

 

There were very few of these young, insolent officers who truly cared for maintaining order. Most of them were all too eager to lose themselves in a life of ease. It was their right, he supposed, and their reward for being forced to surround themselves with common brutes, however they forgot one simple thing: They were there to serve. They could do whatever they wished, take whatever liberties they wished, but they were never to forget that there was still one authority that could make them and unmake them in equal measure. However...this boy...he had _potential_. He was no man yet, scarcely even an officer, but there was hope for him, yet, if anyone bothered to see it. His brother wouldn’t, the rest of the court wouldn’t, satisfied now that their plaything of the moment was gone, however….

 

He felt a smile edge its way along his face of his own accord.

 

Well, if his brother didn’t know what to do with a dulled knife when it was given to him, he certainly did. Knives and smiles and other sharp things, those were what set him apart from his brothers.

 

The Comte de Peyrol was moving towards his grandson, stick still clutched in his hand, the silver wolf’s head at the tip of it dull in comparison to a dark corner of Versailles. He strode over to meet the Chevalier, who started in surprise, dropping into a reverence.

 

“You did well today,” Artois said, “I must admit to being impressed.”  
  
“You might be alone in that.” The boy remained still, but out of the corner of his eye, he watched his grandfather.

 

“No matter. So long as the right people are pleased, does it really matter?”

 

The boy hesitated for a moment before nodding his head. “No. It doesn’t.”

 

“Good,” Artois smiled, showing teeth. “Now, walk with me.”

 

He fought to keep the smirk off of his face as he watched the Comte freeze mid-stride, face completely frozen in-between indignation and shock. There was nothing he could do, not really. A Prince of the Blood had taken an interest in his grandson, he had no choice but to allow it. This was a triumph for him.

 

“So, I presume you intend to join Rochambeau in this…” He waved his hand, the light of the candles hitting off the rings of ruby and onyx that circled around his fingers. “Business in the English colonies.”

 

“I will go where I am ordered.”

 

“All the young officers want to go to America. It’s all the latest fashion. And, of course, your friend, the Duc de Rochefoucauld will probably want you to go.” 

 

At the Duc's name, the Chevalier remained impassive, though something cold seemed to come into him then, his face losing all its expression. “If I am ordered there, then I will go there. If not, I will take pleasure in wherever I am ordered.” The words were stiff as they came out of his mouth, rehearsed and beaten into his head.

 

“Surely you must _want_ something.” Everyone wanted one thing or another, especially if they believed that it was impossible to obtain it. (Though he had long since learned the ways to obtain anything he desired.)

 

“I want to serve France,” he said, “And the Monarchy, as I have sworn to do. However that may be done, I will do it.” There it was again, just beneath the lines that had been dropped into his head, that _fire_.   

 

“In these troubling times, surely it is all France can hope for, hm? It’s such a rarity, these days. The Crown is beset by so many enemies on all sides, it almost seems hopeless.”

 

“Surely the Crown has lasted this long. Kings have ruled the world since-since the dawn of time. I can hardly believe that these godless traitors should make any lasting change.”

 

“I agree fully.” The boy _believed_ in the Monarchy, believed in it with every word that came out of his mouth, even when the words themselves had been put into his head long ago. His grandfather truly had done a magnificent job with him. Perfectly honed and sharpened for future use, it was for the best that his brother hadn’t spared a second glance towards him. “This new breed of traitors will all come to nothing. After all, God has given my brother the right to rule.”

 

 _But God could take it away just as easily_. That was the unfinished sentence, the one that he wanted the Chevalier to hear, ever so faintly, even if his mind couldn’t comprehend it yet.

 

And if he did take it away, then it could be presumed that God never really meant for him to have it. With a few well placed words, it would be simple enough. Really, if Artois was wrong, then he would have been struck down long ago, and that was the best evidence that his theory was flawless. God, if such a thing did exist, had given the destiny of the Bourbon line, of France, to him, and therefore he had the same authority as God.

 

“Remember me when you’re in America, hm?” He said, his hand running alongside the Chevalier’s shoulder, so stiff and cold, applying pressure ever so slightly.

 

“Of course,” the Chevalier de Peyrol said, “I believe that-” He stopped, eyes widening, and for a moment he was not the stern officer he pretended to be.

 

“What is it?”

  
  
“Nothing, Your Highness. A stray thought, nothing more.”

 

“Nothing…?” Artois said, letting the Chevalier catch his eye. He’d always been told that he had fine eyes, expressive and dark, ever since he was a child being fawned over by nannies and governesses who cooed over him. “And you thought it worth speaking out loud?”

 

“No, Your Highness-Surely-I only meant to say that I do not think that I shall ever forget you.”

 

He _had_ him. He might not realize it yet, surely, but he had him. Not that it was truly that great an accomplishment, as everything was his by right.

 

His hand moved to the boy’s cheek, thumb brushing against the sharp ridges of his cheekbones. For a moment, the Chevalier seemed to relax into it, only to tug away, a sudden glint of fear and something that Artois couldn’t place in his brown eyes as his breaths stammered in his chest.

 

“But you have had a long day.” It would be no good to give up the advantage now. Let him retreat, for a little while, retreat and think. “I will leave you to retire.”

 

As he left, a shadow of blue amidst the white and gold of Versailles, he turned to glance back at Artois in the doorway. Only for one moment, however it was enough for Artois to feel something resembling satisfaction curl up in him like a well-pleased cat.

 

(He could never truly be satisfied, that wasn’t in his nature, not when he was forced to smile and bow and laugh while his brother sat on the throne that should have been his. Instead, there was something hungry inside of him, something insatiable, constantly seeing what it could devour next and daring anyone to stand against it. That was the mark of divinity, was it not?)     

 

Lazare de Peyrol, he thought, would be very useful one day, once he had more experience and he had returned from America's petty squabble. And he _would_ come back.

 

He always would.

**Author's Note:**

> The primary sources that I consulted on this were Chateaubriand's account of his own presentation at court (which is where I took Louis not having anything to say from, which he was evidently very embarrassed about), as well as the Duchesse de Gontaut's memoirs, where she discusses Louise de Polastron's disastrous presentation, where she was comforted afterwards by.....The Comte d'Artois, her future lover. Unlike this Artois, I'm sure that Historical!Artois didn't have...well, at least not THIS ulterior motive.


End file.
